


street names and place names and all the names.

by redhoods



Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Age Difference, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Flirting, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Pet Names, pining in the way only two morally ambiguous characters can
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:33:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24322087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhoods/pseuds/redhoods
Summary: “That’s really fair,” Jason says, reaching out and patting Tim on the arm, “Also Slade didn’t do this,” his tone is very serious, strangely solemn, “He likes me, he wouldn’t.”“Sweetheart, you’re going to ruin my reputation.”Drake makes a weird sound in his throat.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Slade Wilson
Comments: 39
Kudos: 540





	street names and place names and all the names.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i have never written slade before. or much of any dc fic either?? hope i did them justice.  
> 2\. why is there not like some sort of decent official map of gotham... come the fuck on. (i really like maps.) i guess like everyone else i'm just making shit up as i go.  
> 3\. according to the wiki, jason and slade are the same weight despite jason being four inches shorter and i'm _thriving_  
>  4\. some nebulous timeline as it must be with comics
> 
> the non-consensual drug use is not perpetrated by either slade or jason, nor does it really effect mental faculties. consent between jason and slade is not effected.
> 
> this isn't beta'd. title is from a richard siken poem.
> 
> _Names of endurance, names of devotion,_  
>  street names and place names and all the names  
> of our dark heaven crackling in their pan. 

If there were perks to living in Gotham, Slade couldn’t pick any of them out. Sure, anything you wanted, you could get it somewhere in the hellscape of concrete, rebar, and petty crime. The cops got in the way just as often as they didn’t. But none of it was worth the Bat.

Five million might be worth the Bat though.

Not that he’s planning on bringing the Bat down on himself for this job, even as he follows the broad line of Todd’s shoulders through the crowd. Wasn’t hard to do really, he stood over most of the crush of the bodies almost as much as Slade himself did. He also cut through the crowd like it was nothing, people shifting around him, out of his path.

Slade had to give it to him, kid didn’t move like a Bat.

Certainly didn’t shoot like one either.

It was one of the reasons he’d reached out. Aside from the kid owing him a few times over for Qurac, no one knew Gotham better than the Bats and even Slade had to admit with some sort of grudging respect, that no one knew the underbelly of Gotham better than Todd.

Who’s slowed down ahead of him, head cocking like he’s listening for something. No, he’s watching rooftops, if he had seen something—someone—they were already gone.

He steps forward, nudges the kid with his elbow, “We got a timetable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Todd grouses, voice low, “I know, old man, gotta get you back home early so you can clean your dentures and drink your prune juice.”

Inhaling deeply, Slade jabs a finger against the kid’s ribcage, not quite satisfied with the way it makes him jerk on the spot, but at least he’s moving again. It’s not like he’d magically managed to forget what a mouthy brat Todd could be, but knowing and having to deal with it were two different beasts.

It isn’t long before Todd is ducking into a shop, some small hole in the wall that Slade thinks the two of them could barely stand shoulder to shoulder inside without being a little pressed in. He also nearly smacks into a paper lantern as soon as he’s in the door, as Todd ducks under it with familiarity, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Amusement is clear in his gaze and Slade regrets not leaving him in Qurac for a brief moment. Or tells himself he does.

But then Todd is stepping right up the counter, leaning down against it with his elbows as he starts to speak with the old woman. It pulls the leather jacket taut across the back, highlights the piece he’s got holstered in the back, and Slade instinctively steps close behind him, just to the right to hide it from anyone that might come in behind them.

Todd’s Mandarin is something like passable and the old woman is clearly humoring him, some sort of rapport already there in the crinkle of her eyes as she lets him flounder on some of the words.

Especially when the topic turns to Slade’s presence and the grin she turns his way as she asks, “ _And is this your partner?_ ” with clear connotations, that even Todd seems to pick up on, if the way his shoulders draw tight and his ears go red are any judge.

Slade drops his hand on the kid’s back, over the gun mostly to keep himself from getting shot in the next three minutes. “ _Forgotten his manners again,_ ” he replies with a fondness that’s too easy to dredge up as Todd goes tense under his palm, “ _I’m Slade, it’s a pleasure._ ”

She seems unsurprised by his fluency of the language, gaze flicking to Todd and back to him, “Keeping this one out of trouble?” She asks, in English now, not even the barest hint of an accent.

“As if,” Slade replies immediately and she laughs, a sharp burst of sound, already nodding as she produces a card from her apron, pushing it across the counter.

“I like this one, Jason, bring him around more,” she says then clicks her tongue, waves them off with a hand.

Todd’s already sweeping the card up, red down his neck now too, which isn’t an awfully terrible look for him. Far better than the splotchy red he’d gotten running through that base in Qurac with a bullet in his thigh, but that’s neither here nor there.

Instead of heading back out, Todd—Jason, should use that if this is a ruse they’re gonna use—starts deeper into the building. They actually have to turn sideways and duck through the doorway that leads into a kitchen that’s only got two guys in it.

Both armed.

One of them flicks a half hearted wave at Jason as they pass by, barely even spares him a glance as he follows.

“You got a lot of familiarity with this place, kid?” He asks as they empty into a hallway actually wide enough for them to walk properly through. It doesn’t surprise him at all when Jason turns suddenly, backing him against a wall with an arm against his throat.

He hasn’t gone for any weapons though, so he’s playing nice.

Probably.

“The fuck was that?”

Slade grins at him, “Would you rather I introduce myself as a mercenary or perhaps Deathstroke?” He asks, voice low, certain there’s some sort of surveillance in this place. Then tilts his head back against the wall, says louder, “You’re still blushing. Not embarrassed are you, Jason?”

Entirely worth the shove of a forearm against his throat as Jason shoves away from him with a low frustrated growl, stalking down the hall further.

He follows around the corner, finds Jason paused in front of a thick metal door, twisting the card between his fingers, blush renewed across his cheeks and over his ears. Ducking in close, he’s half expecting a blade to the gut that doesn’t come, “Say the word and I’ll back off.”

Jason sighs though, heavy and grudging, shoulders loosening, “It’s fine, it’s whatever,” he says, all bravado. “No grabass though,” he adds suddenly, grabbing a finger against Slade’s chest.

Humming low, Slade reaches up to wrap his hand around Jason’s wrist, grip loose and easy to pull away from, “Pity, you’ve got a nice one,” and laughs as Jason splutters and jerks away, turning to the door, “Are you always this easy to fluster?”

There’s no answer except the pound of Jason’s fist against the metal.

A slot slides open around Jason’s naval and he pushes the card through. The slot closes and there’s a lot of clanking of locks before the door slides to the side, revealing a man that makes the both of them look small, though Slade would wager a majority of his weight would be fat.

The man grins though, toothy and claps Jason on the shoulder, “It’s been a while,” he says easily, sweeps his gaze only briefly over Slade before looking back to Jason with an arched brow, “And you brought a friend.”

“Slade,” Jason says with a jerk of his chin over his shoulder, “I won’t let him start any shit.”

“Good,” the man answers, “I haven’t had to toss anyone out yet, been sort of nice.”

“Give it an hour,” Jason replies and starts down the stairs before them, “c’mon, old man.”

Slade curls his lip at Jason’s back and the man laughs and waves him through, “Got your hands full with that one.”

“Don’t I know it,” Slade tells him as he starts down the stairs, relishes in the finger flipped over Jason’s shoulder as he follows him down, towards the sound of chatter and cards shuffling.

The whole place has been unassuming until they hit the bottom of the staircase and Slade finds himself looking at a proper casino in what has to be an old subway station, though that’s hard to parse with how cleaned up everything is, down to the marble tile under his feet.

It’d be easy to forget that Gotham doesn’t exist above their heads.

There are women in gowns and men in tuxes and Jason sticks out amongst them as he strides towards the bar, partially because he seems so much younger than all of them, but it’s also just down to the obvious rough cut of him.

Also the jeans and leather jacket.

Slade follows behind him, gaze cutting around the room, picking out faces he knows, weapons in holsters, other potential exits. Ends up at the bar, leaning against the surface next to the stool Jason has positioned himself on.

“Mr. Todd, it’s good to see you. The usual?” The bartender seems to split the difference between him and Jason, middle aged and balding and exceedingly ordinary. The nudge of Jason’s knee against his thigh tells him otherwise.

Jason is grinning, but it’s different, bland and societal, the sort of thing Wayne probably taught him, “Of course,” he answers, “and how about five hundred to start me off?”

The bartender nods, flicks a gaze his way, “And you?”

“Whiskey, double, and,” reaches into the bag on his side, aware of the way the bartender goes tense but Jason doesn’t as he drops several stacks of bills on the bartop, “Eight hundred for me.”

It makes the bartender’s brow arch high but he nods, “Name for this?”

Slade considers but Jason nudges him twice in the thigh with his knee, “Wilson.”

There’s recognition in the bartender’s gaze and a reconsideration of both himself and Jason, who only smiles blandly at the man. “Of course, right away, Mr. Todd, Mr. Wilson.” He turns away then, shuffles down to a terminal flat in the panel behind the bar.

Jason leans closer, shoulder against Slade’s chest, head tilting back so his breath skates Slade’s jaw, “Bar’s got enough volts to take even you down, old man, careful.”

“Is that your best term of endearment, sweetheart?” He asks in return, adjusting so it’s only a covered elbow on the bartop. The Ikon is at the kid’s safehouse, it would’ve ruined the silhouette and integrity of his suit, but far be it from him to ever venture somewhere new without some sort of protection.

Surprisingly, Jason doesn’t lean away from him, but even at this angle, Slade can see the red of his ears, “Would you prefer ‘absolute mother fucker’, because that suits you too.”

Slade rumbles out a quiet laugh, splays a hand against Jason’s back as he listens to someone approach from behind them, “Keep that up, you’re gonna make me think you don’t really like me.”

“Good,” Jason hisses, then leans away again as a woman slides onto the stool on Jason’s other side. He can feel the shift of muscles as Jason angles himself in her direction, not open but not hostile either. Familiar.

“Jason, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about us down here,” she says and drapes her arms on the bartop, briefly looks like she’s going to touch Jason’s arm, but reconsiders as she glances between the two of them, instead folds her hands together.

The bartender appears then, placing a glass with a napkin in front of he and Jason both, flicks a glance to the woman, “Ms. Romero, another drink?” He asks, only nods when she flicks fingers at him and wanders back down the bar away from them. Slade clocks a handgun on his ankle this time as he goes.

He waits a beat, watches Jason wrap a hand around the glass, thumb rubbing through condensation on the side, but Jason doesn’t take a drink of it, “Candy,” he says and the woman’s lips press thin, “I could never forget about this place.”

She hums, “If you say so,” she says, tilts her head, “Bringing a date though, might ruin your rep, what will everyone say,” she barely spares Slade a glance.

Jason laughs, still noticeably hasn’t tried to shrug Slade’s hand off him, “Maybe I’ll get out of here with my ass only getting pinched a few times,” he says, easy and casual, “less married women hitting on me while their husbands are right there, too. Last time I was in, a guy spent the whole time pointing a gun at my junk under the table.”

It makes the woman—Candy?—laugh though and she taps her nails on the table top, “Fair enough, hope he knows what he’s gotten himself into,” she says as she slides off her stool.

“He’s a big boy, he can handle himself,” Jason replies, almost immediately.

She laughs though, smirking sly, “He certainly is,” she turns as she says it, wiggling fingers over her shoulder, “I’m at my usual table.”

Jason doesn’t splutter, but Slade feels like it’s a near thing with how he turns and suddenly slams back his entire glass in one go, baring the long line of his throat as he does so.

The bartender reappears just as Jason places his glass down, sliding a case of chips to each of them, “Gentlemen, let me know if I can get you anything else.”

An elbow to his arm knocks his hand off Jason’s back and he’s sliding off his stool, in Slade’s direction, so they’re thigh to thigh, chest to chest, something like challenge in the tilt of Jason’s jaw, in the way he press his mouth to Slade’s jaw, “I will stab you,” he says against the skin and pulls away, lifting his tray of chips as he goes.

Slade hums and watches him go, before turning his gaze to the bartender, “Another drink for that one,” he says with a grin as he picks up his own glass and tray and turns to follow Jason once more.

The table Jason settles at does not have the woman at it, but the seat to his left is open so Slade slides into it, wondering if the kid is thinking about covering his blind side or just didn’t think about it. Knowing the way Jason’s mind works though, he’s hard pressed to believe there’s anything Jason doesn’t consider.

Even when he’s pissy.

He sinks into the seat, hooking his ankle around the leg of Jason’s chair as he organizes his chips to his liking, doesn’t even complain that Jason swipes his glass as soon as he sits it down. Instead, he takes in the table, the other folks already there.

Two are watching with amusement, the third does not look pleased to see Jason, and the dealer is shuffling the cards as everyone tosses chips in.

The mark that Slade’s been trying to pin down for three weeks in this hellhole of a city is at the next table, directly within his line of sight. He drapes his arm across the back of Jason’s chair as he slides his chips into the pot in the center. It’s easy to pick up the steady thud of Jason’s heartbeat this close, a little more difficult to pick up the others at the table while also listening out around them, but he doesn’t feel the slightest remorse about cheating here.

His gaze flicks over, just in time to see Jason take a huge gulp of whiskey and Slade touches his shoulder, slides his thumb along the length of his throat as he swallows, “You’re supposed to sip that, sweetheart,” he says, low but not quiet.

Gets a delighted snicker from the woman on Jason’s other side and a scoff from the man trying to stare a hole in the side of Jason’s head. 

Jason angles towards him though, still defiant, though leans into Slade’s hand that slides to his jaw with the movement. And then the little shit knocks back the rest of the whiskey in one go.

“I’m not carrying you up the stairs,” he says, thumbing against Jason’s lower lip before dropping his hand away to check the cards dealt to him. Next to him, Jason’s heartbeat ratchets up and stays that way for three rounds of bidding around the table before it settles.

They go through a handful of hands, Slade takes the pot twice, Jason and the woman that seems so delighted back them each take it once, and the man still clearly disgruntled by Jason, maybe even more so due to being ignored gets it once if only because Slade takes pity and folds.

Jason’s hand digs into his thigh at that, head dipping against Slade’s shoulder, “You had that,” he accuses low.

Slade hums, gaze on his mark as he drapes his arm across Jason’s shoulders, squeezes, “What’s your point?” He asks, into Jason’s hair.

There’s silence from Jason as the dealer slides cards across the table and he pulls away, turning a considering glance at Slade, who turns his attention briefly, eyebrow lifted back at him. Jason is the one to turn away, if only because the first bid is on him.

Someone emerges with another drink for Jason, though Slade watches him nurse this one instead, palm kept curved around the glass, flicking chips across the table one handed. 

Jason’s focus is always something to behold, the knit of his eyebrows, solid line of his jaw, a steely sort of determination setting in until the next four rounds go to Jason before Slade manages to wrest a win for himself out of him.

It’s... impressive.

Damnably attractive too.

He also seems to know when to cut out, waiting until Slade’s gathered his winnings before he stands, practically draping himself across Slade’s shoulders, glass still in one hand, “Lets go see what sort of trouble Candy’s getting into, _darling_ ,” he declares, too loud near Slade’s ear, then smacks a kiss against the side of Slade’s neck before shoving off.

Slade shoots a ‘what can you do’ look at the rest of them as Jason strides off with his tray of chips and drink, then slides a couple chips to the dealer before he stands and follows as well, much more sedately.

Candy is indeed at the table when he arrives at it, though it’s the seat to Jason’s right that’s open so Slade sinks into it and drops his chips in just in time to join the hand while he takes in the sprawl that Jason has adopted.

He’s fairly certain it’s not physically possible for Jason to be taking up more space than he is presently, thighs opened wide though the open spread of them is angled just so in Slade’s direction and Jason’s ankle bumps against his as he settles in his own chair. Jason’s right hand also ends up on the back of his chair, his left on the table cupped over the top of his cards.

A difference in attitude for a different table.

Everyone at the table seems younger than most of the crowd, far closer to Jason’s age now. Not a one of them seem particularly surprised by Jason’s presence, though he does get several glances.

None of them subtle.

A woman on Candy’s opposite side swoons forward, hand to her chest, “Jay baby, say it ain’t so,” she says, grin wide and half teasing, “tell me you’re not off the market.”

“Sorry, doll,” Jason replies with a wink, fingers sliding up the back of Slade’s neck, “I do so hate to disappoint.” He sounds a bit like Grayson though Slade is ninety-four percent certain that voicing that would get him punched in the gut, so he doesn’t.

(The other six percent is losing his left eye and even those are too high of odds.)

She laughs, high and delighted and sinks back into her chair, “You’re breaking my heart!” 

“I always did wonder about you, Todd,” the man—maybe a couple of years older than Jason, really—to Slade’s right interjects, and Jason goes tense, but the man presses on, “I always thought all of us down here were just too safe for you.”

That makes Jason laugh though, head tilted back, genuine laughter to the point he even snorts, face going red as he rubs at his eyes, “Oh, man, you have absolutely no idea.”

Most of the table isn’t paying attention to the cards and half of them seem genuinely surprised when Jason viciously takes the pot at the end.

Candy seems as unsurprised about it as Slade feels.

“You don’t call, you don’t write, you show up with tall, white, and handsome, and then you take all our money,” Candy says, tsking.

Jason grins at her, “You wouldn’t expect anything less of me.”

Her sigh is all faux long suffering, “I suppose you’re right.”

She takes the second pot with relish and Slade can already tell that this is a common occurrence at this table. Especially from the quiet sighs of the others at the table when Jason takes the next round.

And Slade’s certain he’s got the next, but Jason folds abruptly after the third flip, though no one else seems to notice it. Not wanting to draw attention to Jason, Slade continues through, while Jason watches quietly.

His heart rate is getting slow, dragging.

When Slade takes the pot, he gathers his winnings, “Time for a break,” he says to the table with a nod, lifting his a Jason’s trays and offering Jason his free arm. 

Jason blinks at him, a little hazy at the edges but takes the arm offered. 

Slade does most of the work hauling him up, lets Jason curl under his arm to keep him up as they head to the bar, turns his face against the top of Jason’s hair, “You gonna stay conscious?” He asks low.

They’re almost to the bar before Jason nods in response. 

He’s careful not to touch the bar, not to let Jason lean against it either when they make it, only sets their trays down and pushes them across with as little contact as possible. “Put mine on his account,” he tells the bartender.

“Leaving so soon?”

Jason pulls tight under his arm but Slade rubs a thumb over his shoulder, “We’ve got tickets to a show,” he answers.

The bartender is looking at Jason though, but takes the chips, “I’ll put this on Mr. Todd’s account then,” he says and turns away, probably thinks he’s subtle about the way he looks back at them.

Slade hefts his grip on Jason a little, “Still with me, sweetheart?”

“Will kill you,” Jason slurs, half of it pressed into Slade’s chest, but it’s enough as they start walking towards the exit.

Hyperawareness in overdrive, he hears someone approach, but recognizes the gate, turning a quick glance at Candy as she approaches from Jason’s otherside, something tight in her gaze that makes Slade draw up.

Jason palms his side though, squeezes, and somehow he’s gotten his arm under Slade’s suit jacket, hasn’t gone for a weapon so he relaxes.

The three of them walk for the exit, are part way up the stairs before she speaks, “Who, Jason?”

Slade jostles him a little to make sure he’s still awake.

Jason hums at him, smacks his lips, “I’ve pissed a lot of people off,” and Slade snorts, getting a mildly reproachful look from Candy.

“Who’ve you pissed off this bad?” She asks again.

Slade considers as they reach the top of the stairs, “The man who was staring you down at the first table, fifties, bald spot, knock off watch,” he offers.

Candy blinks, expression going thoughtful before she nods, “Rufus,” she answers, “I’ll waylay him downstairs, but what about—”

Slade grins at her with his teeth, “We’ll be just fine.”

It makes her head tilt, considering now as they stop on the landing, “I see why he likes you,” she says and before Slade can think on it too much, she’s heading back down the stairs, pace unhurried.

The man at the top of the stairs looks between the two of them and sighs heavily, “What’ve you done now, Todd?” He asks and twists a handle on the back of the door, several tumblers turning before the door slides open, “He knows the rules, once you’re on the street, we can’t do anything.”

“S’okay, Luca,” Jason slurs, “The old man’s got capable hands.”

Luca’s eyebrows lift, “Does he now?”

Jason, barely conscious and swaying, only nods, “Very dextrous,” he says, though he goes slow, annunciates carefully, “should see him take apart a gun. _Woof_.”

Slade snorts and Jason turns to him suddenly, eyes wide, “Alright, romeo, lets go,” he replies with a shake of his head, sliding his arm under Jason’s to take more of his weight as they leave the staircase.

Behind them, Luca is still laughing as the door slides closed.

Even in the dim hallway, Slade can see the red of Jason’s neck and ears as they head back, through the kitchen. The thin hallway makes things difficult, a useful security measure but a bitch when Jason is unsteady on his feet and they spill in the front room.

Jason does bump into a paper lantern this time and the affronted look on his face is almost worth the shit they’re probably going to step into on the street. But then Jason’s turning to the old woman, actually bumps against the counter when he pulls out of Slade’s grasp, “We’re gonna use the side exit.”

Slade stares at the back of his head.

The old woman lifts her eyebrow and leans close to Jason before tutting and shaking her head, “You’re trouble,” she says and lifts the side of the counter.

Jason huffs and slides through, turns to look at Slade, “C’mon, old man.”

“I will leave you in a dumpster,” Slade threatens without any heat which is unfortunate for how Jason’s smile goes all slow and liquid.

“Sure you will,” he says and stumbles through the beaded curtain.

Slade sighs heavily and steps back to follow him, gets stopped by a shotgun aimed at his crotch, “I rather like all of that intact,” he intones carefully.

The old woman huffs at him, “If he gets hurt, that won’t be the anything you’ll have to worry about losing,” she says, then lowers the weapon, adds it to an absolute arsenal that’s behind the counter. “I don’t think either of us have to worry about that though, do we?”

Jason comes swinging back through the beaded curtain, slamming right into Slade’s chest, “Jesus fuck, you’re like a brick wall,” he pats at Slade’s chest before pushing himself back upright again, “I know you’re old, but damn, I didn’t think you were this slow.”

Slade turns his gaze to the old woman who sighs, “Don’t throw him in our dumpster, there’s old food in there,” she says.

Jason makes an affronted squawking sound as Slade takes hold of his biceps and turns him around, pressing him back through the beaded curtain.

It’s an open, warmly lit tea room and Jason leads through it, his weight sagging back against Slade as they move through to a hallway and a staircase leading up and a door that Jason immediately turns himself towards.

There’s so many locks on the damn thing that it still takes both of them a good minute to get them all, not that Jason is a great amount of help, his head lolling back on Slade’s shoulder, “Might lose consciousness,” he says, breath against Slade’s throat.

“Don’t worry, kid, I got you,” he says low as he pulls the door open, turning them so his back is to the door and he can lean out to peer up and down the alley.

“I liked sweetheart better,” Jason tells him, sounding petulant.

There’s no one blocking either end of the alley as Slade backs them into it, tucking Jason close up under his arm as he opens the holster on his hip, resting his hand against his gun, “Sweetheart it is then,” he answers, “Think you can hold a gun?”

Jason’s quiet as he considers and Slade catches his hand flexing, like he’s testing his movement, before he shakes his head, “Don’t think so.”

“Think you could get us some backup then?” He hazards, edging them towards the back of the building, “Preferably someone who won’t arrest me on sight.”

There’s a low hum from Jason and Slade thinks he’s lost him but when he looks, Jason is scrolling through his phone, “Dick would just to piss you off, Damian would give us both to the cops,” he says it all so quietly, like he’s thinking out loud and Slade tries not to feel charmed, “Kate probably wouldn’t, Tim either.”

Slade leans him against the alley while next to some crates, “Make your choice, I’m going to see what sort of company we have.”

Jason blinks at him, then nods slowly, “‘kay,” he’s already looking back at his phone when Slade edges off.

Despite temptation, he doesn’t look back, can hear Jason’s side of a quiet phone call as he stops at the end of the alley and peers out, sighs heavily at what he sees before edging back down towards where he left Jason, just as he’s putting his phone away.

“Tim’s on his way,” Jason tells him with a sigh, “he’s gonna be such a bitch about this.”

Slade snorts and leans against the alley next to Jason, putting his blindside to Jason, hoping he’s at least got enough awareness to keep an eye out, “Good, got armed men at the back,” he says, “I’m going to check the front.”

Jason only hums and flaps a hand at him.

Turning, Slade cups his chin, tilts his head up, “Stay with me, sweetheart,” he tells him, “Be a real shame to end our date early cause you can’t hold your whiskey.”

It makes Jason’s lip curl at him, his heart making its best effort at kicking up in pace, which was the goal, so he nods once and strides down the alley, listening to the string of creative cursing Jason lets out in his wake.

There are at least six more men and two more vehicles at the front than there had been at the back. Slade sighs heavily and makes his way back to Jason, who seems to be counting in Portuguese. “Tell me about Rufus.”

Jason blinks hazily at him a few times, before heaving a great sigh, head tipping back against the brick wall of the building, “Wannabe Bruce Wayne,” he answers finally.

Slade snorts before he can contain it, gets a wry twist of Jason’s lips in response.

“He’s half as rich, no where near as handsome—” Jason doesn’t seem to even realize he’s said it, ticking the facts off on his fingers, though he’s got three up rather than two, “—a rep for smacking his dates around, and just generally a shit business man.”

“And what did you do to piss him off?”

Jason grins at him, “I’ve poached a few of his dates, refused to let him win a hand last time I was in,” he pauses, shoulders sliding against the wall, “The Hood maybe has also blown up his last six or seven shipments, but he’s not smart enough to know that’s me too.”

Slade shakes his head, “Kid, you are some kind of fuckin’ trouble.”

With a burst of sudden movement, Jason’s shoved off the wall and right into his space, a line of heat against Slade’s front, though whatever effect he’s aiming for is ruined by the way he sways on the spot a little. “I thought we’d moved from kid to sweetheart,” Jason says, once he’s steady, Slade holding his hips to keep him upright.

“Old habits,” Slade replies, squeezing his hips.

“You’re not that old of a dog,” Jason tells him, eyes half lidded and red across his cheeks.

He’s got freckles across the bridge of his nose that Slade hasn’t noticed before, never had much cause to take him in beyond the fact that his nose has clearly been broken numerous times and probably not set right for most of them.

It’s not not working for the kid.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he says low, ducking down near Jason’s ear, “I’ll make it up to you.”

The red on Jason’s cheeks is spreading down, but his jaw is set, “Oh yeah? How so?”

“By not letting those nice men with the automatic rifles take you,” he replies and turns his head, “Hello, Robin.”

Drake is only a few feet from them and Slade had very nearly missed his approach, but there’s no amount of training that can really stop a heartbeat.

“I’m not Robin,” he says, which is just semantics at this point, closing the distance, palm out to touch Jason’s arm though he doesn’t make contact, “What’d you do to him, Wilson?”

Slade sighs heavily, “Look, I can’t call you Red, this one is Red. And I can’t call you birdy, because that’s the first one,” he moves a hand to Jason’s back, hauling him upright when he starts swaying too far in Drake’s direction, “and the spawn is well—”

“That’s really fair,” Jason says, reaching out and patting Tim on the arm, “Also Slade didn’t do this,” his tone is very serious, strangely solemn, “He likes me, he wouldn’t.”

“Sweetheart, you’re going to ruin my reputation.”

Drake makes a weird sound in his throat.

Jason withdraws from Drake to pat Slade’s chest, “See, knew you could learn new tricks,” then swings back to Drake who looks like he wants to be anywhere else, even with the mask on. “I may have made an enemy—”

Both Drake and he snort at the same time.

“—Hey!” Jason waves a finger between both of them, “Don’t you two go agreeing on shit,” he looks as threatening as a wet kitten but Slade keeps that to himself.

“Some rich guy was pissed at this one here,” Slade tells Drake, “And maybe if he had sipped his drinks instead of knocking them back like cheap tequila, he’d be in better shape.”

Drake’s eyebrows are up near his hairline.

Jason huffs, actually pouting now, “Worth it.”

“Okaaay, well,” Drake starts and pulls something off his belt, holding it out in Slade’s direction, “I can’t carry him when he’s running on his own steam, muchless like this,” and it’s a grappling gun. “get him somewhere safe and I’ll keep an eye on his new friends.”

“You’re the best, replacement,” Jason mumbles.

Slade shakes his head, wrapping his arm around Jason’s back, gripping tight to his side, “Think you can hang on?” He asks low, gaze on Drake as he shoots his own line up, disappearing up between the buildings and onto the roofs. 

“Ha,” Jason says, “Think you can carry me?”

Breathing out through his nose, Slade thinks he should be well beyond rising to the bait of bratty twenty somethings with chips on their shoulders, but well.

He’s never claimed to be perfect.

“Get ready,” he warns, stooping down to get a hand around one of Jason’s thighs and lifts. Jason is heavy, dense as fucking brick and tall compared to most. Slade is well aware and well prepared for that. What he isn’t prepared for is for Jason to easily roll with being lifted, thighs locking around his hips, arms over his shoulders.

“Oh,” Jason says, sounding stunned where he’s pressed his forehead against Slade’s shoulder.

Slade adjusts his grip, getting his arm as tight around Jason’s back as he can, “Good?”

“Uh huh.”

Tipping his head back, Slade can see the shape of Drake watching them, before he fires off the gun towards the upper ledge of adjacent building, tightening his grip on Jason before it lifts them off. Bat tech being what it is, it doesn’t struggle with their weight at all, even if it’s hell on Slade’s shoulder.

The trick is catching them both on the ledge of the building without overcompensating and tipping them both back off to the ground.

Drake is waiting right there, seems to heave a sigh when Slade steps off the ledge onto the roof itself, stable even with Jason still clinging to his front. “B is in Old Gotham, might not want to cut through there.”

Slade jerks his head as he jostles Jason to set him down on his feet, keeps a hand on him in case he starts to sway, considers the pallor of his skin, “If you vomit on me, I will drop you.”

“Fair enough,” Jason replies, patting him on the chest, using that point of contact to brace himself as he bends over to wheeze between his own knees, “Any chance we can get an Uber?” He asks, when he’s been like that for several seconds.

Heaving a sigh, Slade turns his gaze from a staring match with Drake, “Once we’re further away,” he acquiesces.

“Don’t worry, I’m not a cheap date,” Jason finally pulls himself upright, managing a smirk even if he’s still a little green, “I’ll pay.”

Drake blows out a breath, “Thank fuck,” he mutters so low that Slade almost doesn’t hear it.

Slade grins, tugging Jason back to him as he leads him towards the next roof, “I think Robin over thought you were going to say you’ll put out,” he says, loud enough for both of them to hear him.

Jason makes an indignant sound and whirls suddenly to face Drake, a hand to his chest, “Oh, replacement, how little you think of me,” Drake looks like he wants to bolt, “you should know that I don’t put out on the first date.”

There’s a long pause where, even with the mask, Slade knows Drake is debating if he can get away with two counts of murder, before he draws his shoulders says, “You owe me, Jay,” then turns and launches himself across the street, grapple shooting out neatly to haul him to a higher vantage.

Jason starts snickering to himself as he turns around, “How far you think we oughta go?”

“Two of us in Chinatown?” He asks, debating a leap between two roofs and then Jason, wondering if he could make it, “We don’t blend in.”

“Knew you were gonna say that,” Jason grumbles and before Slade can stop him, makes the running leap across the buildings, tumbling into a not quite graceful roll on the next building, but hell, he makes it.

Nodding, Slade follows behind him, trusting Jason to at least know the right direction to take them as they cross buildings. At least, until they come to a gap that Slade isn’t sure he’d risk even if he wasn’t keeping track of Jason.

The ease with which Jason tucks against his side as he pulls out the grappling gun is interesting and perhaps trouble for the future, but he doesn’t question it as he squeezes the trigger, launching the both of them over the crowded street and up to a higher ledge.

It’s a shitty apartment building and the roof access door is propped open by a brick, the roof covered in empty bottles, cans, and cigarette butts. “Think anyone’ll shoot us if we cut through?” Jason asks, still under his arm and making no move to put distance between them.

“They can try,” Slade replies, taking initiative and leading them both to the door.

The stairway is cramped and the building is dark inside, fluorescent lights barely flickering on every ten feet or so. Only one door cracks as they pass and one woman starts out her door, sees them and ducks back inside.

Slade snorts and Jason laughs.

They hit the street with no problem and Jason is already palming his phone out, pulling up an app on his phone to order them a car. “Three minutes,” he says.

Standing still on the street corner waiting for the car makes something like apprehension settle at the base of his neck, but Slade is well used to it and not about to jinx them both by wondering what else could go sideways, “So does the bartender have a grudge too?”

Jason huffs and his arm is under Slade’s suit jacket again, fingers warm where they’re curled at Slade’s hip, “That place goes through them pretty quick, can’t trust ‘em for long and most of ‘em know that. Probably easily bought.”

“Hm.”

“He’ll probably be gone next time I swing in there,” Jason carries on.

Slade nods, “Gonna take care of your wannabe first?”

Jason’s thumbing out a text on his phone, cursing quietly to himself as he hits the wrong letters but makes no moves to pull his other arm away, “Mm, didn’t think he’d be so bold or stupid,” and Slade can practically hear the gears turning in his head as he thinks, “Oh, I slipped a bug on your mark.”

“What?”

The phone gets tilted up in his direction, map open and a small red dot back at the casino, “Stumbled briefly into that table waiting for your slow ass when we moved to Candy’s table.”

“Impressive,” Slade hadn’t even seen him do it, but he does see the way Jason puffs up under the attention, preening in a way that reminds him of Grayson. More endearing though. “Keep an eye on him for me?”

Jason hums in response.

A car pulls up and Jason tugs them both forward to it, spilling ungracefully into the backseat, already sliding towards the other side as he rattles off an address to the drive. Slade follows more gracefully, keeping an eye on the driver as he settles into the seat.

The backseat of the car isn’t made for someone of Jason’s height, muchless Slade’s and their knees end up pressed together and they haven’t even made it two blocks before Jason is slumping in against his side, still fiddling around with his phone. He’s shooting off texts, obviously planning something.

“How you feeling?” He asks, when they’re out of Chinatown, crossing Finger River.

“Heavy as fuck,” Jason answers, screen back on the map from before. The red dot is moving now. “Less drunk, more lead filled.”

Slade squeezes his shoulder, “Shouldn’t have stolen my whiskey.”

Jason grouses something unfavorable under his breath.

Traffic isn’t as hellacious as it could be, better than Los Angeles at any rate, but it’s still thirty minutes before they hit the East End and the driver pulls to a stop, looking nervous, “You sure this is where you wanna be?”

“Home sweet home,” Jason answers, spilling out of the back, “I’ll give you five stars, man.”

The driver still looks nervous and as soon as the door as shut behind Slade, he peels off down the street in a squeal of tires.

Jason laughs, “Smart man.” He waits for Slade to join him, leaning against him once more as they walk, though this time Slade at least knows where he’s headed.

“Beginning to think you just like being close to me,” Slade murmurs, as they’re approaching the garage that’ll let them into Jason’s safehouse. He angles himself so he’s covering Jason as he works through his security measures and then heaves the garage door open enough for both of them to duck through.

It drops back down with a clang of reinforced metal and lights flicker on around them.

Both of their bikes are still there and they pass them for the stairs up into the apartment itself. Jason seems to be moving even slower when they crest the top and Slade pauses with him as he keys in the security code before they shuffle further in.

Jason flings himself down on his couch, arm tossed over his face as he kicks his boots off over the arm.

Slade considers his suit, then turns the other direction to the kitchen. It’s incredibly neat and tidy, which no longer surprises him, given how much time he’s now spent with Jason and witnessed of his cleaning habits.

He snags a bottle of water from the fridge and walks back to the living room, tossing it onto Jason’s chest, “You should hydrate.” 

“Are you going?” Jason asks, when Slade’s moved to his duffle on the table, starting to lay out pieces of his Ikon suit.

“I’m on a deadline,” he answers as he pulls his tie loose, tossing it into the empty duffle. He can hear Jason shuffling, the bottle of water being opened as he shrugs out of the suit jacket. That goes in the duffle too, he can get the thing dry cleaned and properly pressed once he’s out of Gotham.

And significantly richer.

Jason is quiet as he unbuttons the dress shirt and slides it off, but he can feel eyes on his back. He’s only just knelt down to untie his shoes when Jason finally speaks again, “Want a bird in your ear?”

Slade makes a mistake then, choosing to lift his gaze towards Jason, finds himself being watched from under the shadow of Jason’s arm, tossed over his forehead now, water bottle half empty and hanging loose in his grasp. The instinctive ‘no’ is right there, but he opens his mouth and, “Sure, sweetheart, you wanna whisper sweet nothings while I kill a man?”

A grin pulls at Jason’s lips, slow and small with too much teeth, “I do like bearing witness to your work.”

“Alright, if you keep me out of the path of any Bats,” he pulls his shoes off, leaving them on the floor, and straightens back, hands falling to his belt.

Jason makes a low interested sound and Slade’s under no illusion, he’s got Jason’s full attention now. The temptation to put on a show is there, but he stays methodical as pulls the belt from the loops and coils it. He’s watching, listening for it, so when he pops the button of his slacks, he can hear Jason’s quiet inhalation.

Even in the dim light of the room, he can see Jason’s cheeks going pink.

The slacks follow everything else and when Slade turns for a piece of the Ikon suit, Jason’s quiet _’jesus fucking wept’_ echoes in the room. 

He’s got his helmet in hand when Jason approaches, leaning on his hip next to the table Slade’s commandeered for his equipment, “You got a specific frequency you operate on?” He asks, handing over his phone when Jason holds out a hand.

Jason disappears into what’s most likely the bedroom and returns with a laptop that looks new compared to the sort of mismatched hand-me-down furniture of the safehouse. It boots up fast too when he sinks down into one of the chairs at the table, drumming fingers on the wood surface, “O doesn’t usually object if I use some of her eyes in the sky, so I can watch Bat chatter and what you’re up to.”

While Jason gets the tech sorted out, Slade checks his weapons, goes for the case for his sniper rifle last. A thumbprint scan and flip of the latches and he rechecks to make sure all pieces are present and accounted for.

“Damn, that’s beautiful,” Jason interrupts, half leaning across the table to peer over top of the case.

“Maybe if you’re good, I’ll get you one,” he snaps the case closed and slings it over his shoulder, watching Jason’s chin dip as he settles back heavily into his chair.

He types a few more things before sliding the phone across the table top followed by a small case with an ear piece, “I can be good.”

Slade clicks his tongue as he puts the ear piece in, “Somehow, I doubt that.”

Jason laughs and the sound comes in echoing stereo through the earpiece and proximity. “You wouldn’t be half as interested in me if I were good,” he counters.

And he’s not wrong, but Slade’s not going to come out and say it, instead starts for the door, “Being good is overrated,” he says, like this isn’t a variation on a conversation they’ve already had a few times before, “Also if I wanted to work with someone _good_ , I’d call in a favor from Grayson.”

“Who doesn’t owe you favors?” Jason asks, when Slade’s down the stairs and on his bike, waiting on the garage door to open.

Slade peels out once he’s got the clearance, though there’s not many people that are stupid enough to be on the road at night in East End. Not that he’s overly worried about traffic laws as he cuts corners, “This might surprise you, but most people tend to be too smart to get into my debt.”

“Hang left,” Jason says suddenly and what’s the point of having eyes on if he’s going to ignore them, so Slade banks left down a narrow alley, “there’s police blockades around the neighborhood, apparently some lesser Arkham freak is out and wreaking havoc.”

There’s a wistfulness to his voice that Slade recognizes, “Kid—”

Jason makes a low sound.

“ _Sweetheart_ ,” he starts again, to another low sound though not a protesting one, “you know if you go out there, you’re only going to get your ass kicked.”

The next sound is aggrieved, agitated.

“I know, it’s your stomping grounds, your neighborhood,” he carries on, trying not to wonder too much about how he’s offering company to anyone, much less a Bat, “but you’re no good to anyone if you go out in the state you’re in.”

Jason sighs, “I know, you’re right and I hate you for it.”

Slade laughs over the sounds of horns blaring as he veers through traffic.

“And people say I drive like a maniac,” Jason sounds defeated, but there’s no sounds of him moving around or doing something stupid so Slade will take it. The fact that he’s worried about what the kid is up to settles something like unease in his gut. He’s too attached, he knows he is. And if completing a contract in Gotham wouldn’t be enough to keep him scarce for several months already, attachment would be.

“Shit,” Jason blurts, with much vehemence, “B’s in Chinatown.”

Exhaling loudly, Slade shifts lanes, cuts off a limousine with gusto, “Anywhere near my target?”

There’s a flurry of typing before Jason goes, “Eeeehh?”

“Be more vague, I da—”

“Hang left!”

Slade cuts off the limousine once more, heading in the opposite direction, crossing several lanes of traffic to a cacophony of horns blaring and what might be someone getting rear ended, “ _Jason_.”

Jason makes a low sound, “Sorry, but Nightwing was headed up behind you and I don’t think you wanna run into Golden Boy tonight.” There’s more furious typing, Jason swearing colorfully, before he starts explaining, “Apparently Tim gave B some sort of bullshit story and the whole collection of them are descending on Rufus and his men.”

It’s...fucking devious is what it is.

“Little shit,” Slade mutters to an amused snort from Jason.

“Tell me about it.”

He finds somewhere to stash the bike and takes to the alleyways to stay out of sights of any birds or bats overhead, “Think you can find me a perch with line of sight?”

Jason scoffs, “Go right out of this alley and two blocks, building on the corner is tall, probably far enough from B,” and it’s that sort of knowledge of the city that had Slade calling Jason for help on this operation in the first place. “Better get up there, take your shot, and get the fuck out.”

The building is tall, some sort of export business or something with poor security that means Slade can simply shoulder check his way through a side door and stroll through to the stairwell, “Wasn’t planning on lingering.”

“Don’t feel like going toe to toe with B?” Jason asks.

Slade grunts as way of an answer as he shoulders open the locked roof door. It is fucking high up and he can actually see the littlest Robin, spawn that he is, streaking across rooftops before he goes swan diving down to the streets, “City’s got a fuckin’ infestation, Hood.”

“Bats are that way,” Jason replies immediately, amused.

The line is quiet as Slade sets up and he almost asks if Jason’s got eyes on him all the way up here but decides he doesn’t want to know how well the city is surveilled. He’s on his stomach, lining up his target, “Gonna have to skip out. Soon as this hits the news, Daddy Bats is gonna know,” he says low, as he adjusts for the wind.

Jason’s breath is audible over the line, typing gone silent as Slade pulls the trigger.

He only stays put long enough to make sure it hits before packing up his weapon and disappearing into the building. If he’s lucky, the poor bastard won’t be found until morning at the earliest, but he’s never placed a lot of stock in luck.

The streets are as quiet as they ever get in Gotham and he pulls his mask off as he heads to where the bike is. Cop cars go blaring by him and he grits his teeth, “Tell me they aren’t.”

Some furious typing later and Jason heaves a breath, “Neighbor heard the window break and went to check on him.”

“I hate this city,” Slade grits out.

“She’s an acquired taste.”

“You need better taste,” Slade tells him, back to the wall of an alley as a large dark shape moves over buildings he’s between. Then he starts walking a little faster, he’s not going to run dammit.

Jason makes a low sound then yawns loudly, “Not the first person to tell me that,” he replies as Slade is uncovering the bike from some old palettes, “usually about my taste in men.” There’s shuffling over the line and he thinks Jason might’ve moved to the couch.

The bike comes to life under him and he wastes no time peeling out, heading back for the bridge to get him out of southern Gotham, “Oh? You follow in Bats’ footsteps, got a thing for the bad ones?”

It draws a quiet laugh from Jason, “Got a thing for you, don’t I?”

“Do you now, sweetheart?”

“Mm, thought that was obvious?”

Slade hums low in his throat, “Still a blockade?” 

“No,” Jason replies immediately, though the word is dragged out around a massive yawn to the point that Slade’s certain he hears Jason’s jaw crack, “Black Bat swooped in to round up the freak.” He’s only quiet for a pause, not even enough time for Slade to reply, “Slade.”

“Jason.”

There’s quiet over the line as a cop car goes screaming by before Jason exhales loudly, “You could lay low here for the night,” then quietly, “or a few nights.”

He should get off the bridge, veer left, head for a bridge out of this god forsaken city before the Bat has a chance to catch up with him. Really, he should. Instead, he turns right, deeper into East End, says, “You’re fuckin’ trouble, sweetheart.”

Jason laughs, a quiet exhalation of sound, “I know.”

“Open the garage door.”

It’s already lifting when he comes around the corner and he ducks his head to fit under without having to wait, veering the bike to a stop less than a foot from Jason’s own bike. He knocks the kickstand down while he pulls his helmet off and Jason is standing at the base of the stairs.

He’s changed at some point, sweatpants that are sliding off his hips, shirtless and barefoot on the concrete floor of the garage.

Slade slides his gun case off and props it against the wall, crosses to Jason in a few long strides. HIs helmet hits the floor as he gets his hands around Jason’s hips, hefting him up against the wall so they’re eye to eye, “You should be resting.”

Jason snorts quietly, wrapping around him like this is familiar territory, “Lotta things I should be doing,” he replies, eyes heavy lidded, “I’m good right here.”

There’s not an argument to that that works in Slade’s favor so he doesn’t bother trying, only ducks in to press his mouth to Jason’s. It’s nothing earth shattering, warm and dry and gentle until Jason shifts, gets impatient, bites at his lower lip.

Slade laughs against his mouth, but still opens for him, lets Jason lick into his mouth.

He tastes like toothpaste, not whiskey, and he’s a little sloppy, a little eager, obviously losing the battle with whatever is in his system. Really, it’s impressive he’s lasted as long as he has, but sheer stubborn willpower has gotten both of them further on less.

Jason is the one to pull back with a loud gulp of air, head tipping back against the wall. There’s a flush spreading across his cheeks, down his throat and chest and Slade’s wondered about that blushing, about how far it would travel. It’s a good look, just like the swollen lips and blown pupils, “Fuck,” Jason blurts when he realizes Slade is looking, “I would—”

A yawn cuts him off.

“Sleep it off, then whatever you want is on the table,” Slade finishes for him, duck in to drag his mouth along the line of Jason’s jaw, nips at the hinge drawing a startled high keen out.

“Must be a big fuckin’ table,” Jason mutters, his fingers scrabbling at Slade’s shoulders.

Slade laughs and draws back after worrying a mark into the side of his throat, letting him down to his feet, “Bed, sweetheart.”

The blush somehow intensifies and Jason flaps a hand at him before starting up the stairs, looks back over his shoulder only once like he’s making sure that he’s being followed. They crest the top of the stairs and Jason immediately ducks through one of the doorways. Slade only pauses long enough to take the ear piece out and kick his boots off before following him.

Jason is sprawled on his back in the middle of the bed, blankets all kicked down by the foot of the thing, and his eyes are just barely open. He’s quiet as Slade strips out of the Ikon, leaving the pieces in a pile by the door to deal with some other time.

“Should I have made it a show for you?” Slade asks, when the last piece is off and he’s standing at the side of the bed.

Shuffling over, Jason groans quietly, “Think I might’ve combusted if you had, too tired for all that,” he flaps a hand in Slade’s general direction before dropping it onto the bed next to him, patting the space.

Invitation clear, Slade climbs onto the bed, drops down on his back just off from the middle of the bed with a gusty sigh, “Surprised you managed to stay awake this long, really.”

“My tolerance isn’t great these days, but it’s better than most,” Jason answers, not wasting any time sprawling himself half on top of Slade, leg tossed over him and head ending up on his shoulder. Slings his arm over Slade’s middle, hand splaying over his ribs, “Not all of us can metabolize shit like that in an hour.”

Slade hums, draping his arm across Jason’s shoulders, sliding his fingers through his hair, “Makes getting drunk a bitch.” He reaches up with his free hand to pull his eye patch off, tossing it onto the side table. Tugs gently at Jason’s hair, “Sleep.”

Jason grumbles quietly, “Bossy old man.”

“Damn right, sweetheart.”

There’s not an actual retort aside from more grumbling, but Jason’s clearly giving up the fight though, breath going even and heart rate settling slowly. Slade waits until he’s sure Jason is out for the count before allowing himself to be pulled under by sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i feel like i should write what happened to them in qurac... might also write a follow up to this? next morning or something, if folks are interested.


End file.
